


You Understand, I Can Tell. Few Do.

by Theboys



Series: Dear God, It's Me, Dean [32]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angry Dean, Angry Sam, Blood and Gore, Bottom Dean, Canon-Typical Violence, Graphic Description, M/M, Omega Dean, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sam, Protective Sam, Scared Dean, Top Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 20:50:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4536849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the moment between the last rush of air in a life, and the taking of it, juxtaposition between death and the grave. </p><p>In which our fabulous duo finds out what exactly is located on North Lessard, Dean is confronted with a Sam he is unfamiliar with, and things don't end up quite as they should.</p><p>Dean POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Understand, I Can Tell. Few Do.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a quote by the Joker.
> 
> Violence below, gang.

Eyes doesn’t send Dean back to his cell.

Dean’s legs are aching, and he keeps his hands crossed over his chest, rests them gently on the swell of his belly. His palms are tucked underneath his armpits, doesn’t want the demon to see the restless way his fingers are twitching.

He needs to sit down.

He’s not too keen on exposing his condition so quickly, but the pups aren’t moving anymore. Lilac settled first, predictably, and Maple was boisterous for a bit longer, his scent nudging at the more subdued one of his brother.

Dean could smell the anxiety, filtered just under Dean’s own worry, and he’d had nothing to give Maple, no comforting words, no escape route. They’ve settled down, and that’s more worrisome than if they were still playful. They get quieter the weaker Dean becomes. Dean sits, let’s himself sink to the color-peppered tile floor.

There’s a last vestige of hunter grace in his limbs, but he still hits the floor hard, sparkle of pain traveling up his tailbone. He grunts once and stills, and he can see Eyes looking down on him, same expressionless face that he has used since Dean first arrived.

When he speaks, he glances out at his small kingdom, hands remaining disarmingly by his sides.

“It’s a shame, really, that you have to die.”

Dean grunts against his will and sighs internally. He hadn’t meant to feed into this bullshit any further.

“I’m sure it must really piss you off to have to commit a little murder.” Dean’s voice is desert dry, a week without rain. Eyes laughs, and it’s not so much a laugh as it is the gentle expulsion of air.

“I’ll be sorry to see you go.” His face cements, and when he speaks again, Dean’s not sure it is directed to him. “He has to die. He has to die sooner than later. And the only way to assure that is through you.” Dean wrinkles his forehead.

He’s past the point of fear, of believing that he will die here, alone and without his brother. But he doesn’t understand. Why is Sam’s death the endgame? Has Dean been so remiss that his brother has become a veritable target, a mission for Hell to complete?

Dean places both hands behind his back, sucks in his breath deeply to give him the momentum needed to pull himself into a standing position. He teeters on his legs regardless, weight of his stomach almost causing him to pitch forward. He regains his equilibrium, wipes cold sweat from his forehead.

They’re out of time.

He hears the splintering of metal before he sees it, has about thirty seconds to look around, attempt to ground himself and figure out what the hell is going on when he sees the back wall, the wall furthest away from the second floor railing, where Dean is located, bow in under pressure.

The metal crunches in, giant fist in the center, and then the concrete between the metal and the outside air curls in on itself and crumbles, white ash raining to the ground.

Dean slants a glance over at Eyes, but the demon is paying him no mind. His fingers are gripping the railing tightly, flesh paling visibly. He snaps his neck down, makes a quick downward motion with the digits of his free hand, and the demons below turn to face him simultaneously.

What the hell is this?

Eyes doesn’t speak in the beginning, and Dean wants to sucker punch the man. The wall is more than halfway to disintegration, and whatever the fuck is on the other side is probably going to be less than pleased when they enter.

“Defend. Your deaths are of no consequence to me.”

Dean shudders at the monotone, the voice is flippant, as if Eyes is discussing the weather. Dean expects a backlash, demons are loyal only up until a certain extent, and death seems to trump all instances of honor.

Dean’s horrified to see the small outfit of demons turn and face the threat as one, distended limbs of one body, tentacles of a sentient monster. Eyes blinks over at him, mouth downturned, expression bulletproof.

The wall shakes to dust before his eyes, and it doesn’t shatter with a big bang, like Dean imagined it would, it dissolves like spun sugar, it’s there one second and then the flakes of the building are cascading down, so thick that Dean cannot immediately see who is behind the attack.

Dean doesn’t realize he’s right next to his captor, practically breathing down his neck, until the air settles, and the dozen demons begin to stride forward, cohesive machine, cogs of the corporate giant.

Someone small and slight enters first, and she’s in jeans and a hat, it’s mildly difficult to pinpoint. He sees a flash of blond, thinks it is her hair, and suddenly he sees the unmistakable sight of a demon expelling itself from its host, black smoke curling formidably in the air, twisting with a scream.

The woman tugs her knife free with some effort, hooks two small hands around the handle and raises up on one leg, bracing her right foot into the demon's chest and shoving, as she jerks her blade out at the same moment. She’s swinging around again, instantly, hurls her weapon into the eye of the monster closest to her. The man goes down with a screech, but he isn’t dead, still possesses the host.

She’s running, full tilt toward the one she’s incapacitated, and she jerks the knife free, tugging the eye out with it, optic nerves scarlet and dangling obscenely. She yanks the blade free of the oculus, angles it underneath his chin, twists violently and Dean can see the crimson lurch from his mouth, tsunami of vomit, sweeping across the girl’s clothes in one giant spray. The darkness exhumes itself, curling back in weak terror, from whence it came.

Dean sees that there is another person, and it’s taken them a bit longer to come inside, but now he’s in the melee.

Dean would recognize that height anywhere.

“Sam.”

He says the word lowly, relief and irreverence

_why the fuck couldn’t you just let me handle it_

And Eyes back stiffens.

Dean’s confused. Doesn’t know who Sammy’s new friend is, or what the hell that little magic display was, and how the girl fucking pulled it off.

Dean watches his brother cut an arc through the horde, is shocked that he can scent his brother through the blood that is quickly spilling on the battlefield. He can smell his brother’s Alpha, more consumed with murder-rage than Dean has ever before smelled, and he backs away instinctively, arms wrapped around his middle, and he’s hissing in perturbation.

Eyes doesn’t look at him, but Dean hears him just the same.

“You do that to him. That's your mark.”

Dean forces himself to return to a vantage point where he can witness what is occurring, assures his children that they’ll not be harmed, serial killer’s lullaby.

Though you may walk through the shadow of the valley of death.

He blinks rapidly as Sam slides behind a demon that the girl is having some trouble with, burly man, long black hair, broad shoulders and wide hips. Sam wraps one hand around the side of the man’s jaw, curves his other forearm over top of his hair, fingers curling over the opposite side of the face. He twists, sharp snap of broken bone echoing, and Sam drags the man’s entire body over his right shoulder, slamming him down on the ground with such ferocity that the corpses nearby shake with impact.

His brother is in motion again, and he watches as Sam flings his knife, heavy arc through the air. He can see the tendons on his brother’s arm stand out, and then he looks as the knife hits home, low in the chest, between the ribs. Dean stumbles backwards as he watches pale-white light erupt from the host, eyes and mouth burning with it, and then the light flickers out, and the body lay dormant on the ground.

Dean’s never seen anything like it.

What the fuck is that? What is Sam doing to them?

There’s one demon left between the two of them, the girl had started out hot, but Sam had quickly brutalized the defense, superior Alpha strength and hunting skills dominating his smaller partner. She’s leaning towards the last of the few, teeth bared, and Dean’s knees lock together when he hears Sam’s growl, stuns her into obedience.

She flips the blade in her hand, holding it by the handle, sharp tip extended towards her own chest. Sam isn’t looking around, his gaze has not once connected with Dean’s and Dean sees this when Sam hunts, cold-minded devotion, deceptive eye of the storm as it rages around them.

His brother is streaked with blood, even more so than the girl next to him, grip loose and controlled on the knife in his fist. He isn’t fancy with it, aims for a clean kill and Dean knows Sam is never flashy if he can help it, he analyzes every angle before he attempts what will be the surest outcome.

Scared Dean, when they were younger. Infallible Alpha robot, his tense frame, the way his eyes would flicker about, dissociative moments, more beast than boy. Dean knows this is something that he will never fully grasp. Some of the hunt in Sam is Alpha-bred. They’re warriors. Some of that methodical nature belongs solely to Sam.

His brother catches the man by the back of his neck, light brown hair hiding his brother’s fingers. He jams the knife directly in his carotid artery, motionless even as the spray splatters him, raindrops on roses.

Dean watches as that unnatural light gleams and then gutters out, firefly on its last breath of flight. The body slumps against Sam’s for a second and he sidesteps it, letting it crash onto the ground beneath him, and Dean can hear bones break upon collision.

Sam’s eyes finally snap up, and Dean wants to grab his boy, press him close to his chest and breathe deep, smother himself in the blood his brother has spilled for him, but Sam’s gaze flits over him, briefly but encompassing, and stops when he meets the face of Dean’s warden.

This is the moment between the last rush of air in a life, and the taking of it, juxtaposition between death and the grave.

Dean can taste his pulse in his throat, thick rust and salt, and his heart-rate is violently rapid, hammering in his chest so roughly he has to clutch at it, will it into subservience.

Dean never gets a chance to say anything, because the girl Sam came with abruptly begins to scream, vehement wail that only increases in intensity, fear-scent swirling in the air, and Dean claps his hands over his ears.

Eyes face lights up with the first emotion Dean has been able to see all day, and he rests one arm gently on the railing, twists his foot in the bottom rung.

The woman is still screaming and Dean’s eyes flit from blonde to Sam, who remains motionless, no attempt to shield himself from her piercing howls. The scream tapers off into ragged sobs, and her voice is hoarse, but she sinks to her knees, knife clinking against the tile as she discards it, and she’s rocking back and forth, arms tangled around her middle.

“Sam!”

She says, his name almost indistinguishable in between racking tears.

“Sam, not him! You don’t know, Sam! You don’t fucking know!” She’s reduced to sounds again, and they’re such despicable, guttural moans, Dean can’t bear them. It sounds like torment. She is agony in the flesh and Dean doesn’t know why he is the only one affected.

“Be silent.” Eyes offers this impatiently, and instantly, her tears become softer, though her body remains rigid and tense.

He looks towards Sam, gaze calculating. “She knows. She knows, Samuel. How does that sit with you? She’s seen my face, knows who I am, but you are in the dark.”

His brother’s mouth twitches, tic in his jaw, but nothing else.

“You’re in over your head, boy. I wanted to make this clean, for you.”

Sam speaks, first time during the encounter.

“Give him to me. I’m--maintaining myself, for him. He’s mine.” Dean realizes that Sam has blood in his mouth, teeth are coated in it, and Dean knows it’s not the blood of his enemies. It’s bright, and it trickles down his jawline.

Dean is horrified. Sam is holding himself together, fine line of restraint, so fine that he’s drowning in it, own blood set forth to asphyxiate him. Somehow, Dean doesn’t think he’ll be able to fight this one off. Dean doesn’t know exactly who he’s standing next to, but he’s aware that it’s something beyond his limited span of knowledge.

Eyes looks speculative, turns his face to Dean. Sam’s Alpha snarls, high sound in the dead air, and Dean hears his brother being to speak, voice level monotone, volume raising in intensity. “Don’t touch him. Don’t lay a hand on him. I’ll spend the rest of my life hunting you.”

Dean doesn’t move, dare breathe.

“It'll be a game, to me.” Sam's hand twitches, just once. 

"I won't leave anyone left."

Dean’s spine shudders, and he can feel his world attempting to go black at the edges, unconsciousness lulling him to safety.

Eyes faces his brother, tilts his head introspectively.

“You won't. I can see that. He is yours, for now.”

Eyes steps away, offering Dean in action only. Dean glances out to where the girl is in a fetal position, dry tears enveloping her body, to where Sam is staring up at them both, eyes red-tinged, vampiric blood at the corners of his lips.

He is the poster child for Death, and Dean’s breath hitches in his lungs. “Who are you? What the fuck are you?” Dean can hear the wild sounds of his own voice, distantly aware of Sam’s footsteps slapping against the stairs, the warm press of his brother’s body as the world shifts and he’s held against Sam’s trembling form.

Dean doesn’t look at Sam, his stomach lurches and hikes its way up Dean’s throat.

“My true name is not meant for you. But in this body, you may call me Cronan.” He smiles, wistful and fleeting glance, let’s Dean’s face slip from his gaze to look up even further, at Sam.

“You’ll need a name to ask for when you come looking for me, Sam.” Cronan’s teeth are blazing, poisonous fangs in the belly of the whale.

Dean feels his brother’s body twitch, just once, and then cease all movement, solid mass of rock and steel, Alpha-scent forming a barrier around him.

“I’m going to kill you.”

Cronan is already turning, walking away, one hand scratching aimlessly at the close cut hair on his head. His whistling, and it’s a tune that Dean can’t place, doesn’t think he really wants to know.

“Oh, I know you are.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> That was a wild ride.


End file.
